


Fireflies

by Ivy_Of_The_North



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, Multi, Romance, Slow Burn, acosf, spoilers for acosf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-22 13:22:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30039339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivy_Of_The_North/pseuds/Ivy_Of_The_North
Summary: *Spoilers for A Court of Silver Flames*People didn’t give Azriel enough credit, she thought. Not nearly enough, not really. It was his job to notice shifts in emotion, changes in behaviour, yes. But he also possessed a much gentler kind of awareness. An awareness he acted on.She’d never felt uneasy around him. Not once.She realised, in that moment, that she’d come to consider him a very dear friend.
Relationships: Amren/Varian (ACoTaR), Azriel/Gwyneth Berdara, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Nesta Archeron & Gwyneth Berdara & Emerie, Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Comments: 15
Kudos: 67





	1. Prologue

Azriel felt every drop of rain that skittered down his wings. Could hone in on each icy pinprick across the membrane, the numbness it coaxed.

He stood at the very edge of the training ring, the damp rock beneath his feet the colour of aging rust, and surveyed the slumbering city below. His eyes roamed from the curling Sidra, all the way to that faraway stretch of sea. Flittered between the glow of the four trading districts, the music halls and shuttered restaurants, the effervescent smudge of the Rainbow in the heart of it all. If he focused really hard, he could even make out the River House – the sprawling estate reduced to a single speck of light.

It had become his new nightly vigil, this. When his empty bed swallowed him whole, when he could no longer distinguish the voices inside his head from the whispering of his shadows. When he felt that darkness creeping up on him – _over_ him – the isolation and the guilt that refused to bend to his will. The shadows of his unruly desires snapping at their master, begging for fulfilment.

Sleep was a practicality to keep him upright and functioning, but he was getting less and less of it with each passing week.

The faelight of Velaris often mirrored the stars above it, until land and sky merged to become one and the same. It was a beauty he’d allowed himself to indulge in more times than he could count, a view that brought him some small degree of comfort. But not now. Not tonight. Not when thick cloud cloaked it all, vapours rolling over the top of the ring in great, damp plumes.

His leathers had soaked through in seconds, the wind strong enough that his centre of balance was ever-shifting beneath him, his muscled body working hard enough that his legs had started to ache.

How long had he been standing there, weathering the storm, waiting? Always waiting.

But waiting for what?

He didn’t know. He didn’t particularly care.

Azriel just tipped his head up to the sky, closed his eyes, and let the bitter cold cleave reality from fiction like the blade of Truthteller itself.

**\---**

Gwyneth Berdara opened one teal eye to the obtrusive glare in her room and promptly shut it again. Absolutely _not_.

“What _is_ that?” she croaked.

Her mouth felt like a desert, her tongue a dead, sandpapery weight within it. She’d never felt like this before. She decided she didn’t like it. Not one bit.

The mattress next to her shifted, then stilled again. And then Gwyn’s duvet was ripped from her grasp in a single powerful tug, leaving her in her nightgown, abruptly cold and barking in protest.

Despite the roiling in her stomach, she shifted into an upright position and looked down to find Emerie on the other side of the bed. There’d clearly been no one sober enough to take her all the way back to Windhaven.

The Illyrian had wrapped the duvet around herself like a makeshift cocoon – the glittering tips of her wings the only sign that her friend was in there at all. Gwyn prodded the bundle with a single finger and felt, rather than heard, a rumble in response.

Gwyn turned back to the obtrusive light to discover that it was, in fact, the sun. Visible through her window. Which meant that it was morning. Which meant that they were late.

“Emerie, we have to go,” Gwyn whispered, reaching a hand towards the duvet cocoon and tapping it lightly.

The reply was unintelligible.

Gwyn angled her legs over the side of the bed and stretched her arms above her, joints groaning with the movement. A light _thunk_ had a glass of water appearing on her bedside table, alongside a herbal tonic. She gulped them both down.

“Thank you,” she whispered to the house.

She swore she felt a gentle touch brush over her brow in response.

“Use your words, Emerie,” Gwyn said over her shoulder, squinting as she bundled the strands of her copper hair into a bun. She let it all drop again when she realised she had nothing to tie it with. Two seconds later, a ribbon appeared in place of the empty glasses.

By the Cauldron, she loved that house.

The duvet rustled behind her as Emerie manoeuvred her head around the fabric. “I said, _practise is cancelled, you masochist_.”

Gwyn chuckled. It was some small comfort to know Emerie sounded as rough as Gwyn felt, though her friend had had considerably more to drink.

Though she continued to stretch various parts of her body in turn – a more restrained version of her usual morning routine – Gywn supposed Emerie was right to remain in bed. Nobody would be at training today.

Nesta and Cassian’s mating ceremony had finally taken place the day before. A beautiful, intimate, and incredibly lavish affair. Nesta had made the High Lord pay through the teeth for it, or so she’d claimed. Not that Rhysand had seemed to mind, not at all. He’d even offered up the River House for the service, along with free rein of his extensive cellars.

The ceremony itself had been… Gwyn still couldn’t find the words.

**\---**

_A dozen or so chairs had been arranged to form a small aisle between them, pillars streaming ribbons in a lattice overhead. Hundreds of flowers – carefully selected by Elain Archeron – were scattered freely around the site, woven into trellises and arranged into garlands. To top it all off, a custom-made gazebo had found its forever home on the lawn sloping down to the Sidra, the stage host to a live band._

_Nesta had held auditions, of course. She’d crushed a few egos in the process._

_Though Gwyn had seen Nesta’s getup prior to the service – had actually helped her pick it out – her breath had still caught seeing her walk down that aisle. Her friend was positively radiant in an intricate gown of silk and gossamer. Navy, but with iridescent silver undertones, the material swaying like water with every step. Her hair was fastened into its usual coronet, but woven through with tiny blue and white flowers._

_Cassian, too, looked resplendent in his finest dress leathers, each of his seven siphons gleaming in the spring sunshine, as if someone had spent hours polishing the stones. He still had that windswept look about him – a warrior blessed with wings, indeed – though someone had clearly_ tried _to tame his hair with a comb._

_They could have worn nothing but burlap sacks and still looked like deities, standing there before the minister._

_Gwyn didn’t have the words to express how happy she was that the two of them had found each other, her gratitude to the Mother for bringing them into her life. As Nesta and Cassian stood before their friends and family and made their vows, Gwyn and Emerie weren’t the only two dabbing at their eyes. She could have sworn a box of tissues lay obscured beneath the folds of Mor’s scarlet dress._

_Nesta had placed her two friends on the front row, in the area traditionally reserved for honoured guests. The gesture had made Gwyn sob even harder during the ceremony, Emerie’s hand on her back a comforting, grounding weight. The shared joy of sisters seeing one of their own find true happiness._

_The event had been a point of simmering apprehension for Gwyn. Never to the point where she’d considered not attending – she would have talked to her friends long before it ever reached that stage – no. It had been more like… a nervous anticipation. The first time she would freely socialise with them as a whole group, the most powerful denizens of the entire freaking Night Court._

_But as Nesta and Cassian exchanged food, the two of them grinning like idiots, Gwyn was reminded that, despite their differing ages, their numerous backgrounds, titles and occupations, they were all creatures capable of love and joy, sadness and sorrow. They had all experienced trauma and triumphed over it. They were all deserving of companionship, laughter, joy and peace – entitled to a fulfilling life. A life with all the trimmings, as Catrin used to say._

_The thought of her twin still filled her with grief. Immeasurable grief. It was a wound that needed time and healing – a wound that would leave a scar. But somewhere in the past few weeks and months, quite possibly in the shadow of Ramiel itself, that wound had ceased to fester. Gwyn knew she still had a mountain to climb. Another one, she supposed. A journey she had to make by herself... But the thought didn’t steal the breath from her lungs as it may once have done, didn’t leave her reeling._

_She had her friends, her sisters. She had her training. She was a Priestess, a Valkyrie and a Carynthian warrior. She wondered how many other titles she would add to her mantle. If she dared._

_She wasn’t ready to leave the House of Wind, she knew that. It was her home – whether she chose to sleep in the Priestess’ dormitories, or in the room Nesta had bequeathed her several stories above it. The library too, she loved too dearly to part with. So much more than a sanctuary. Though her work with Merrill was no longer tied to her daily duties, she was still an academic at heart. Could spend hours with her head buried in a long forgotten tome, unearthing its mysteries._

_It was a comfortable life, she realised, and one she was incredibly grateful for. Change would come, but it would come organically. As it already had._

_Weeks ago, she hadn’t been able to leave the library. Now, she was able to go on short exertions into Velaris proper, not just to the River House. She didn’t push herself beyond her mental limits, though – had felt for that line, that breaking point, and walked it. But never crossed it. She’d learnt there was a kindness in listening to your body, to its reactions, knowing what would stretch you and what would break you. A strength in knowing oneself well enough to set boundaries._

_And now, after weeks of gently expanding those boundaries, when Nesta asked if she wanted to go for a stroll along the Sidra’s banks, she was able say_ yes _._

_Clubs, restaurants and music halls she still found daunting. Too many people. Too many unknown variables. But that was okay. One step at a time, one day at a time._

_She would learn to cut the ribbon again._

_Nesta and Cassian had invited only their closest friends to the ceremony, which meant, to Gwyn’s relief, no strangers. She’d had the opportunity to meet every member of the Night Court’s Inner Circle in the lead-up to the big day, as well as their partners. From sifting through samples at the River House, in the company of whoever happened to be there that day – to select everything from cake to bejewelled napkins (an extravagance Emerie and Gwyn had quickly talked Nesta out of) – to casual luncheons up at the House of Wind._

_She half suspected Nesta had planned it all for her benefit, to allow her the time to get acquainted with these people at her own pace, free from formal pressures, in surroundings where she felt at ease._

_It made her love her friend even more, if such a thing were possible. That kindness. A kindness that so few had appreciated or understood._

_But as the ceremony concluded, and the small crowd erupted into celebratory movement, Gwyn’s heart soared to see the love there – the love for her friends. Fractured relationships slowly healing. Hurts and grievances forgiven. The anger, sorrow and pain left in the past._

_As Gwyn_ felt _that mating bond shine between Nesta and Cassian, she saw it for what it was: the start of a new, exciting adventure._

_As the sky began to dim, they moved the party inside._

_To her disbelief, it was Amren who sidled over to her in the cavernous lounge. Gwyn had been content to stand and observe from her corner of the room, but it seemed the second-in-command had other plans for her._

_“You’re one of us now, girl,” the tiny female murmured, nudging a drink into Gwyn’s hand with no small degree of subtlety, “which means you’re going to need that.”_

_Gwyn was too startled to do anything but follow the suggestion. She nearly gagged on the hard liquor, but the approval in Amren’s eyes didn’t waver as she sauntered off to find her Prince._

_Still clutching the mostly full tumbler, Gwyn leant back against her small patch of wall, the cool silk of her dress swaying about her. A formal, conservative cut by anyone’s standards, with just the tips of her collarbones jutting above the emerald-green fabric. A matching shawl draped over her shoulders. Her hair loose, but gently curling at the tips. Emerie had shown her how to do it, had wielded the curling iron with a profound confidence._

_She knew Nesta wouldn’t have so much as blinked if she’d turned up in her robes – none of the gathered party would have – but she’d wanted to put in that extra effort. Had been pleasantly surprised by the result when she’d caught her reflection earlier that day. She’d looked healthy. Happy, even. It had been a long time since she’d felt either of those things._

_Gwyn wondered distantly where her two friends had scuttled off to, for they were no longer amongst the revellers in the lounge. She’d nipped to one of the many bathing rooms in the house, following an incredibly enthusiastic toast from Nesta, and returned to find them absent. She knew they wouldn’t leave her by herself for long, but she also appreciated the confidence they had in her to fend for herself. The lack of coddling. She could find them if she needed them._

_A gentle hand at her elbow arrested her from her thoughts, and she turned to find Azriel proffering another drink, hazel eyes gleaming. She took it from his scarred hand and sniffed it cautiously. A much weaker brew than the one Amren had fixed for her. Praise the Mother._

_“Thank you,” she mouthed after him, as he removed all traces of the trade with a wry glance towards Amren. The female was, fortunately, preoccupied._

_Azriel cut her a small, secret smile, already re-established on his perch next to Cassian as if he’d never left it, shadows reforming over his shoulders. The larger Illyrian was gesturing rather animatedly from his seat on the couch, almost sending Feyre’s drink flying from her hand on more than one occasion. The High Lady didn’t even seem to notice, nodding emphatically along to whatever tale Cassian was spinning._

_Gwyn took a swig from the cup Azriel had handed her. It was delicious. Refreshing._

_And almost entirely juice._

_People didn’t give Azriel enough credit, she thought. Not nearly enough, not really. It was his job to notice shifts in emotion, changes in behaviour, yes. But he also possessed a much gentler kind of awareness. An awareness he acted on. She’d never felt uneasy around him. Not once._

_She realised, in that moment, that she’d come to consider him a very dear friend._

_The second Emerie and Nesta re-emerged into the living room from wherever they’d been, shit-eating grins firmly in place, Gwyn knew she was in trouble. That they were all in trouble. Knew that any hope she’d harboured about pacing herself had been in vain._

_“We,” Nesta declared to the room, stumbling through the doorway with a large jug held aloft before her in triumph, “made PUNCH!”_

_The cheer that sounded through the room was deafening._

_Gwyn’s wits hadn’t lasted long after that. The rest of the evening was a pleasant blur of dancing and laughing and scoffing down cake. At one point a measuring stick had been brought out, Cassian and Rhysand splaying their wings side by side with such gusto, such male pride, that Mor and Feyre had collapsed on the couch in hysterics. Even Elain, the most reserved of the group, had offered a beautiful, carefree laugh at that._

_And– it may have been the punch, but Gwyn could see it then. A future in this court._

_She didn’t know what part she would play, what her role would be, if she could offer anything of true value. But there was a future in there somewhere. Friendships to forge, memories to make._

_Despite this revelation, however, despite the evening’s revelries, the boundless joy in the room, the sweet music emanating from Nesta’s clever little device, something, at some point, tugged at her. Something was… not wrong, exactly. But off. And she wasn’t, in her slightly inebriated state, able to put her finger on it. That feeling. Couldn’t pin it down. Make sense of it._

_A quick glance around the room revealed no sign of trouble. Insofar as a room full of drunk and powerful warriors could be considered_ untroublesome, _es_ _pecially when two of said warriors were engaged in a rather evenly matched arm wrestle…_

_But then Nesta whisked her away into another dance and she became so focused on where to put her feet, on not falling over, that the feeling slipped from her, like water between her fingers. And, as she was passed off to Emerie – the three friends whirling around one another with all the limited grace and co-ordination they could muster – she let it._

**\---**

It was only in the cold light of day, as Gwyn proceeded to shuck leathers on over her aching limbs, that it hit her. The cause of that feeling.

She couldn’t remember when it had happened. At what stage of the blurry, kaleidoscopic night. But at some point, well before the evening reached its natural conclusion, Azriel had slipped into shadow and disappeared.

And not one person had said a single thing about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first fanfic I've worked on in years, but a week after finishing ACOSF there I was at 2am bashing out a 2,000 word outline to this thing. It'll primarily focus on Gwyn and Azriel, post-ACOSF (but the rest of the faves will make frequent appearances). The first couple of chapters are laying the groundwork for a larger narrative (because just WHO IS Gwyneth Berdara, really? I have a headcanon I'm obsessed with and can't wait to share!!)
> 
> Rating and Warnings likely to change over time.


	2. Chapter 2

Gwyn stood in the centre of the empty training ring, her right foot tracing random patterns across the uneven surface. The sun was still low enough in the sky that it hadn’t yet burned through the inland haar, casting everything in a hazy, golden glow. The chill of winter slowly morphing into spring.

She wasn’t entirely sure what she’d been hoping for, in her hurried walk up through the house.

That he’d be out here by himself? That she’d run into him on the stairs? See, with her own two eyes, that he was alright? Be able to ask him _why_ he’d vanished last night?

As if she had any right to that information.

As if he’d give her a straight answer.

She tore into the pastry the house had deposited outside her bedroom – a delectable thing that tasted of maple and pecan – and willed her stomach to settle with each carby bite. To soak up any remaining alcohol in her stomach and dispel it from her system. Vile, lovely poison that it was.

She didn’t have the energy for a full workout, not by a long stretch, but the routine – the daily structure it provided – was too precious for her to abandon it completely.

Emerie was still curled up in bed, the other priestesses had been given the morning off, Cassian and Nesta were gone, off on their two week honeymoon to the Cauldron only knows where, and Azriel—

Azriel was probably away on a super-secret Shadowsinger mission and wouldn’t appreciate her worrying about him.

Gwyn rolled her shoulders and began working through the last of her knotted muscles.

She just needed to distract herself.

She’d recently discovered a new training routine in the library’s archives. An ancient exercise named _Agoy_ , built around specific positions and motions. Built around stretching, honing. Something to be practised habitually, alongside the mind-stilling techniques she favoured. Gwyn had memorised a handful of the pages, a few of the stances.

Standing alone in the mist-kissed ring, it seemed as good a time as any to try it out.

At least nobody would be around to see her fall on her arse.

**\---**

Azriel knew he should say something. Knew that the longer he stared at her from the shadow of the doorway, the creepier it got.

And he’d be damned if he became _that_ male.

But he was rooted in place.

He’d assumed the training ring would be empty. Had thought everyone would still be in bed, sleeping off the previous night’s libations. But there she was, dragging a mat into the middle of the ring. There she was, the same as every morning, hair glowing amber in the sunlight, a line of concentration etched across her brow. As if there was nothing more important in the world than the task at hand.

The familiarity of the image sent a small, unexpected pang of warmth through him.

Gwyn placed the mat on the ground, brushed an arm over its surface to remove any grit, and then proceeded to sit in its centre, legs crossed before her. She placed her left hand on her right knee, her right hand behind her, and twisted clockwise. She held the stretch and then mirrored it in the opposite direction.

Azriel watched as her movements became less tentative, the motions steadier. She would work through a position – almost as if she were trialling it out – and then repeat, repeat, repeat. Once she’d mastered a handful of the stretches, she combined them, her body flowing through the movements as her muscles loosened. Everything working in tandem.

In all his years of training, Azriel had never seen anything like it. A routine that looked to combine flexibility with core work. That relied on balance as much as the stretch of one’s body. That wasn’t designed to raise the heartrate, but control it, steady it.

An ancient-looking practise… that the female before him had grasped in just a few short minutes.

He wondered if it was an old Valkyrie technique. How Gwyn had come by it. If she would explain it to him. Maybe even teach him a few stances.

 ** _Go and ask her_** , his shadows whispered. **_Stop hiding_. _Say good morning_.**

Busybodies. He would do no such thing.

She’d probably gone to the training ring for some peace and quiet. She didn’t need him butting in, asking questions. Certainly didn’t need his brooding.

He wouldn’t know what to say to her anyway, not after the stunt he’d pulled at the mating ceremony.

Leaving early.

He would never begrudge his brothers their happiness, _never_ , but he’d felt those walls closing in on him. Had felt the snide whispering in his head growing louder. Had looked around the room, at the beaming faces of his family and friends, and felt completely and utterly alone.

It had hit him like a brick to the face. That loneliness.

He’d taken pains to make his exit as discreet as possible. Was almost certain nobody had noticed, but—

 ** _Stay_** , his shadows whispered. **_Stay and talk to her_.**

 ** _No_** , he tried to explain to them, down that bond they shared. The bond forged in darkness and sorrow and pain. **_She wouldn’t want me here_**.

**_Why_?**

**_Because not ten minutes ago I’d been storming up here to punch something._ **

His shadows hissed at him, utterly unimpressed. They could be bothersome little things when they wanted to be. Though they ultimately answered to him, they occasionally had… their own opinions. It was rare, but it happened.

He thought about his answer, mulled it over.

 ** _Because_** _–_ he ventured _– **well, because**_ **I _wouldn’t want me here._**

Honesty. More than he was used to giving, parting ways with. The shadows on his shoulders paused, stilled completely, and then—

**_But she is not the same_.**

Azriel let the words in, let the truth of them settle around him like a veil.

Indeed, Gwyn was not the same. She was not like anyone he had ever met. She possessed a kindness, an intrinsic, innate compassion. A vibrant curiosity. A wilful drive. All as much a part of her as his shadows were a part of him. Despite all she’d been through, despite all the world had thrown at her.

Her resilience awed him. It truly did.

And he’d wanted to say something last night, had wanted to tell her how proud he was of her, of the progress she’d made – to be there, socialising freely with people she hardly knew – as if his words would mean anything to her. As if they had any value. His approval, his companionship.

He’d approached her only once in the evening, with the sole purpose of talking to her, and had totally and unequivocally bottled it.

Gwyn didn’t need him there. He, who no doubt served as a reminder of everything she’d endured.

A cold, roiling fury stirred in his gut as he remembered that day at Sangravah. A day he wouldn’t let himself forget. The day he’d arrived too late. _Too damn late_.

Something in him had snapped the moment he’d stepped foot in those desecrated halls. When he’d scented the priestesses’ fear, their desperation, the vile tang of their blood. Had heard the jeering of those males from deep within that sacred space.

His slaughtering had been messy, brutal, unfiltered. Raw in a way it had never been before. And still those Hybern commanders, those grunts, had not suffered enough. _Not_ _nearly_ _enough_.

It had taken Mor intervening, physically placing herself in front of him, to snap him out of it, out of the killing cold he’d plunged into without a second’s thought.

 ** _She is not the same_** _,_ his shadows repeated. The words cleaved through the fog of memory.

Gywn was now lying flat on her back, hands folded across her stomach, looking for all the world like she’d dozed off. But Azriel could see the small, contented smile on her face, even from his post by the door. Knew that wherever her mind had gone, it certainly wasn’t into sleep’s embrace.

Peaceful, he realised.

That was how she looked, lying there. Utterly peaceful.

Serene.

 ** _No_** , he murmured to his shadows. **_She is not the same_. **

She was _good_.

And she didn’t need his particular brand of darkness around, dimming her light.

With one last glance at her resting figure, he turned, on silent feet, wings tucked in tight, to leave.

And then— Then something extraordinary happened.

For the first time in over five hundred years, one of Azriel’s shadows tugged against him. _Physically_ tugged against him with such strength that he stumbled—a full, off-balance, medley of feet, _stumble_ —out of the doorway, out of the shade, and into the revealing light of day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the lovely comments on the first chapter!  
> I've had a busy week attending online film festivals (and have a frankly ludicrous number of reviews to pen), but I wanted to keep to a weekly chapter schedule as much as possible (hence why this offering is a little shorter!)
> 
> Not me proof-reading this whilst listening to Come What May (from Moulin Rouge)... maybe I'll have to make a whole playlist. We shall see :)


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